The poor murder victim (actually, rich murder victim) was lying in my shopping cart, his arms and legs draped over the side, just where we had left him. A drone hovered nearby, telling him to get out.
“Go away!” snapped Florence Nightingale, waving her hands like she was shooing a fly. “God, I hate those things.”
The drone buzzed off.
Grimal looked at the body. “Oh no, it’s Sir Edmund Montalbion!”
“And who is Sir Edmund Montalbion?” I asked.
“He is the richest man in Cheerville,” Florence Nightingale said, going pale.
“Was,” I corrected.
“Was,” Grimal nodded sadly.
“You know him?” I asked the police chief.
“Not very well. He was a regular contributor to various charities. Once he asked for police advice about making his home burglarproof. He installed the best security equipment money could buy, along with safes good enough for a bank and an excellent CCTV system linked directly to the region’s biggest security company. Monitored twenty-four seven. We assured him that with that level of protection, no one would rob him.”
“What did he need to protect?”
“Sir Edmund Montalbion collected gemstones like some people collect stamps.”
“Did he have any stamps in the house?” I asked.
Grimal’s brow furrowed in confusion, a common expression with him. “I suppose he had one or two.”
“So he collected stamps like some people collect gemstones.”
“Let’s just deal with this case, all right?”
I grinned. Grimal’s training was coming along nicely. He had already resigned himself to the fact that I’d be helping with the case.
I turned to the manager. “Did you know him?”
“I’ve met him several times at gem shows and auctions. He never talked to me much, though. He didn’t like the idea of SerMart.”
“Too commercial and corporate for his taste?”
She frowned. “Something like that.”
“Odd he would end up here, then,” I mused.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Florence Nightingale huffed. “Our quarterly assessment is next week.”
“Did he have any association with the store? Was he ever a customer?” Grimal asked.
Florence Nightingale shook her head. “No. He generally bought at auctions or privately. He was a big name in the jewelry business. A bit of a snob, to be honest. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a store like… oh.”
The manager covered her mouth and turned a brilliant shade of scarlet.
Grimal started taking photographs of the crime scene. Cheerville was too small a town to afford a dedicated police photographer, so he did the job. At least he was a better photographer than detective. Dead bodies don’t try to outwit you.
After he finished, he dusted for prints on the shopping cart and the victim’s two rings, felt the man’s flesh, and experimented with bending his limbs.
“Been dead several hours but not much more than that,” he muttered. “His flesh is almost room temperature and rigor mortis is just beginning.”
Congratulations, Grimal, you passed the final exam for Dead Bodies 101.
He rifled through his pockets.
“Nothing.”
“A man doesn’t generally go out in the early hours of the morning without his car keys and wallet,” I said.
“They could have been taken from him,” Grimal said in a superior tone. “A panicked attempt to hide his identity. Plus, he probably carried a fat wad of cash that would be a temptation for the murderer.”
“Oh dear, Grimal, I gave you a chance to one-up me and you missed it. When I said he should have had his keys and wallet, you should have pointed out his clothes had been changed.”
Grimal blinked. “His clothes have been changed?”
I gestured at the clothes. “Almost no bloodstains. What there is on them came when the head wound got jarred by his meteoric entrance into my shopping cart. And notice that his face has been washed, probably in haste or under low-light conditions. You can still see a few traces of bloodstains. When the coroner strips him, he’ll probably find the same with the rest of the body. A wound like that would have left his clothes and body soaked with blood.”
“Well, of course,” Grimal blustered.
Florence Nightingale looked from me to Grimal and back again. “Which one of you is the police officer?”
“I am,” we said in unison.
“Well, whichever of you is, could you please clean up this crime scene so we can reopen? I have a quarterly sales target to reach, and they’re checking next week!”
“But you only opened two weeks ago,” I said.
She glared at me like I had said the stupidest thing in the world. “Serengeti.com has quarterly quarterly sales targets and assessments. That means every three weeks.”
“That’s stupid,” Grimal said. Harsh words, coming from someone like him.
Florence Nightingale turned her glare on him. “It’s innovative and cutting-edge. Everything Serengeti.com and its associated companies do is innovative and cutting-edge.”
“Such as having dead bodies fall into customers’ shopping carts,” I said. “I’ve never had that retail experience before.”
Florence Nightingale let out a shriek. Grimal struggled with the holster beneath his jacket and finally managed to draw his gun, looking around for the murderer. The sight of the gun made Florence Nightingale shriek again.
“Why are you waving your gun around?” she shouted.
“Because you’re screaming, I thought…”
“I’m screaming because I didn’t realize she was a customer,” she rounded on Bob the security guard. “Why didn’t you tell me she was a customer?”
Bob shrugged.
“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. Please don’t sue. Oh, please don’t sue.”
I patted her on the shoulder. “Calm down. I won’t sue.”
“We’ll give you a gift voucher,” she said, brightening up like she just had a stroke of genius. “Yes, a hundred… no, a thousand-dollar gift voucher. I’ll take it out of my personal savings. Just don’t tell anyone you’re a customer. There’s a quarterly quarterly assessment coming up. My God, if the regional manager finds out…”
“I promise not to tell. The gift voucher isn’t necessary.”
She got a look of profound shock on her face. “Yes, it is! If a customer suffers extreme stress or shopping dissatisfaction in our store and we don’t offer a gift voucher from our personal savings, Serengeti.com can sue us. It says so in the contract!”
“All right. Make it out for a
